Sherlock's Guest
by Penelope214
Summary: Taking place after Sherlock saves Irene from Karachi, she goes into hiding. And what better place to hide than in 221B Baker St. ;) *I do not own BBC Sherlock. If I did, we wouldn't be waiting two years for the fourth season. :P*
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock jolted awake and sat straight up in bed. He sensed something. Something in the flat that wasn't normal. He turned his head to look at the door and began listing in his head what it could be. It didn't take him more than 8 seconds to remember the events of last night and the early morning. He sighed quietly as he mentally kicked himself for not remembering this right away. His brain was becoming slower, it seemed. He blamed the woman.

Last night a woman had been in danger. She had begged for a man's help. "_I was just playing the game." _A man she trusted and she didn't even know why. In her line of work she had been used to dealing with all sorts of men (and the occasional woman, for that matter), why was it that this man was the only one that she could not fully understand. The only one where she didn't know "what he liked". Last night that man had known where she was, and the imminent danger she was in. Thinking she would never see him again, she told him goodbye. Yet, here she was in his flat. Sitting on his couch, while a Dr. John Watson made the two of them tea. A violin was resting on a pile of books and papers to her right, the bow lying adjacent. She hadn't known he played the violin; and of course, she knew it wasn't the army doctor's instrument.

She sat there, observing the room like she hadn't before. Her hair was down lay gently down her back and shoulders. They way she always put it up, one would had never guessed it to be so long. She had no make-up on, but her skin was still flawless; no lipstick and her lips were still rich and dramatic. She had on an overly simple, black, long-sleeve T and loose black pants and around her arms and shoulders was a fainted, blue robe. Sherlock's robe. She had been cold when they returned to the flat at 3 in the morning, her clothes having been thin. The only thing he could think to give her was his robe, the one her wore every morning and every night. She had put it on, remembering the last time she had worn it.

John brought the tea over on a tray to the chairs by the fireplace. "uhm, would you mind coming to sit over here instead? Its an awful mess over there, what with all Sherlock's books ad things."

"Yes, its not very 'neat' around here, is it?"

"Not exactly."

Irene sat down in the chair opposite from John. Sherlock's chair. He handed her the tea and added a sugar to her request. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before John stopped looking at her quizzically and asked his question. "So", he began. "You're not dead."

"Not quite."

"What exactly happened, again? Because when Sherlock came home last night and burst into my room saying we had a guest. I wasn't quite sure what was happening. Especially when he said it was a woman."

Irene took another sip of her tea before saying, "Is that what he told you when we came back?" John looked at her with another slightly confused look, wondering what question he had asked to get that irrelevant response. "uh, yea." He replied. She nodded her head.

"As I recall, I told John that our guest wasn't a woman. It was _the _woman." Sherlock stepped into the living room taking them by surprise and advanced toward where Irene was sitting. She looked up at him and gave a slight smile. He bent down to face her at eye level, placing both hands on each arm rest. "Miss Adler," he began quietly in his low-tone of voice. "You're in my chair."


	2. Chapter 2

So obviously, this is my first fan fiction. I would love reviews by readers, it would help me out a lot! Thanks! :D

John sat across from the two, holding his tea with his mouth slightly agape. Sherlock stood full in front of Irene still and she still looked up at him. "_Your _chair?" She teased. "Yes." He said simply, looking out the window. She smiled again, set her tea down, and got up. They looked at each other for a moment. "I can come up with more baby names for you if you'd like." John suggested in a matter-of-fact way, then taking a sip of tea. "I don't know why you keep suggesting that." Sherlock replied, with his eyebrows neatly knit. He turned toward Miss Adler again who raised her eyebrows and moved out of the way for Sherlock to sit down. He took his seat back and picked up the morning's newspaper.

Miss Adler walked to the window and watched cabs and people peacefully go by. John still sat calmly in the chair across from Sherlock, but his mind was still busy with questions. As if by telepathy, Sherlock lowered his newspaper and looked over at John, "You have questions." He said more as a statement then a question, as usual. John looked back at him, still with a calm look on his face. "Yes," he started. "What exactly is she doing here?" Irene continued to look out the window, but she smiled to herself. "She's hiding." Sherlock said simply. "Yes, but why? How?" John said quickly becoming irritated. At this Irene turned towards John, "Do you not like me, John?" she pouted slightly, teasing him. Sherlock looked amused by their interaction, but he continued to answer John's questions….

"_Oohh", _the overly, sexual noise emanated from the man next to her.

"When I say run, run."

She looked down. A smile couldn't help escaping from her lips.

It all happened so fast. A blade swung over her head, she remained sitting. A man fell to her left, Sherlock moved around and behind her, another man fell to her right. "RUN!", Sherlock yelled. She didn't know where to run, but she got up and ran anyway, straight ahead and didn't look back. It was hard to tell exactly where she was. An old factory, maybe a large garage of some kind. The ceiling was high and the space was large and there were not but a few walls, not tall enough to reach the ceiling. She heard yelling and scuffling behind her, but she refused to look back. She ran behind a wall to catch her breath for a moment and look around for an exit. It was dark everywhere, except from behind her. All she could see was windows, and she realized she had no choice. She tore off the keffiyeh* and thwab** she had been forced to wear and ran to the nearest window. She struggled to open it and couldn't. She began to panic, looking around for something to smash the window with. Behind her lay a thick piece of pipe, she picked it up, stood back and hurled it at the window. Glass shattered and she jumped out of the window and fell only 3 feet.

Looking around her, she knew she had never been there before. It was some small town and it was very warm, and she was glad for having taken off the Pakistani clothing. She wasn't sure what happened to Sherlock, but she could only do what he told her and "run". So she ran, taking alleys and streets between buildings, taking her only God knows where. After about 20 minutes of non-stop running, she had to stop in an alleyway. The adrenaline that had helped her run was finally catching up with her breathing, and she was sweating and panting not much unlike a dog. She leaned her back against the sandstone building behind her and slid down to the rough pavement, heaving. Soon, she heard footsteps approaching her from the other end of the alley. She turned to see, her breath stopping; however, she still hadn't caught her breath, so she let out a large, raged sigh.

"Oddly enough, I prefer the sound you left on my phone." His figure was closing upon her, his outline appearing through the dust blown about by the night's wind. She could see the curl of his hair, and the collar of his coat, and she let out another sigh, still raged, but more relieved. Funny, he should be wearing that coat in such a warm place; it told her he had left London rather quickly to get to her. She slowly tried to stand up, as he became closer to her. She watched him stop in the middle of the alleyway, just in front of her. He faced the outside street and she watched him as he stood there, silently. Finally, he turned his head toward her, "You did beg for my help." He said simply. She smiled lightly at him and let out a breathy laugh. She lowered her head as he continued to look at her. The way he looked just then, she was sure her pupils were dilated again. He stepped closer to her and she couldn't help but look up again. "You can't hide how you feel about me anymore." He told her quietly. She looked into his eyes, and yet she was still desperate to hide hers. "Thank you." She said, not knowing how else to reply. Sherlock looked toward the street again, with a solemn expression on his face.

Irene watched him, he was getting…..fuzzy? "Sherlock…" she started to ask him why he looked like a kitten fresh out of the dryer, when she felt herself slipping. She saw Sherlock look toward her, his eyes became big, and he shouted after her, "Irene!" And then her world went dark.

*Keffiyeh- a middle-eastern headdress

**Thwab- a middle-eastern robe, a symbol of equality among citizens, and ideal for the countries' climate.


	3. Chapter 3

HEY! I finally made it around to writing the 3rd chapter; be proud of me! Lol. Thank you guys for the reviews, I'm so glad you guys like, you have no idea how good that makes me feel! THANKS! XD

_Bump._ Irene was awake once again, confused and light-headed, but she didn't open her eyes. She was afraid of what she might see when she did. However, her fear of the unknown quickly diminished when she felt warmth under head. She knew she had been passed out for quite some time when she noticed her surroundings. She was in a car, a cab, most likely. They hit a few more bumps, telling her they weren't on London streets.

She then recalled the events of before she blacked out. Sherlock had come to save her. A man she knew so much about, and yet she knew so little about who he was. He could tell her, her whole life story and how she felt towards him; yet how he felt about her and anything else was a mystery to her. Suddenly, she felt a hand sweep across her forehead, and fingers pull hair out of her face. She could only assume it was Sherlock, she now refused to open her eyes, hoping he wouldn't stop. "I know you're awake." He said.

She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling of the car. Her head was in Sherlock's lap, and she made no gesture to sit up. He was looking out the window, the lights of the street playing on his expressionless face. "Where are we?" she asked him. He looked down at her, "Just outside of London." He replied. She nodded and continued to lay there, enjoying it all too much. "Why?" He looked down at her again. "Why did you save me?" He nodded this time, "You begged for my help, and I replied. It would be an embarrassment to have begged and not have a result."

"That's the only reason."

"Yes."

"It's still an embarrassment, Mycroft heard me begging too."

"Yes, but Mycroft doesn't care."

"And you do?"

He looked at her with an expression of disguised sentiment. She smirked a little at his lack of reply, enjoying this game they played. She pondered the move he might take next, as she watched him look out the window. After a few minutes of silence, Irene closed her eyes once again. She assumed her passing out was due from exhaustion, and she planned on taking any chance for sleep she could.

She awoke once again, to Sherlock's voice as he paid the cabbie. She finally sat up and Sherlock opened the door, got out, and waited for her with the door held open. "Still a gentleman at 3o'clock in the morning, are we?" She said to him as she stepped out onto Baker St.. "2:42." He corrected her. The cab drove of and he once again held the door for her into 221B. The flat was freezing, as it was mid-fall in London. Irene followed Sherlock up the stairs, and couldn't help but smile and think that this isn't how a late night trip to his flat would have gone if it had been her decision. Once inside, she stood in the living space holding her arms and shivering. Sherlock walked down the hall and opened the door to John's room, "We have a guest." He started to shut the door, and then he added, "it's the woman." He came back to her with his robe in hand and held it out to her, she took it without reply and wrapped herself up in it. "Now that we're here," he started, while unbuttoning his suit coat. She couldn't resist it, "Oh, , its much to late for that." He looked at her confusedly and then he rolled his eyes. "Maybe so," he began again. "But you could tell me how you got caught up by the Kirachi instead." He said taking a seat in his chair. Surprisingly enough, a fire was still going from when John had been awake, and so Irene wasted no time in sitting beside it. "Aren't you Sherlock Holmes? Perhaps you should be telling me." She replied, wanting to see his mind at work. Seeing through her, he replied, "Oh, Ms. Adler. It's much to late for that."

"Alright, but there isn't much to tell," she began, and Sherlock sat back to listen. "I was in my flat, and business of work, when an 'out-of-town' client rang my doorbell. Having been to me before, he was having a similar problem to the one of our 'royal highness'. He was married and there were a few photographs that he wished his bride not to see. Seeing an opportunity for leverage, I bargained with him. Unfortunately the photos slipped out, not by my mistake but through another. I'm still not sure how, but seeing as I thought it would be to late, I didn't bother looking into it. I'm surprised him and his Kirachi got to me as quickly as they did. Seeing as there are so many other people who want me dead." She finished her story without flourish, knowing once again that there were people that still wanted her dead. For now, she was safe, people knew she was dead; for now. However, it wouldn't be long before people got suspicious of a body not being found.

"Baker street." Sherlock said. She turned to him, confused. "Baker street. It will be safe for you." He replied standing up. "What?" She asked still. He looked at her with impatience. "The flat, my flat. You can stay here, it's safe here." Her face softened as she now understood what he was offering her. She stood up. "If any one finds out I'm here…" she said. "They won't." Sherlock interrupted her. She remained silent, as he turned his head and put his hands in his pockets. "They can't." She cocked her head slightly trying to understand what he was thinking, when he turned to her again. "Go to sleep. You need to rest before you pass out again, before you try climbing out any windows." She knew it was supposed to be a joke, but she knew that her staying here was a danger to him, as well as to John. He began to walk away, when she caught him slightly on the arm. He turned his head toward her and she came close to him, her shoulder against the back of his. She looked up at him, his face still turned towards hers. "Thank you." She said once again. He looked at her closely, their faces inches apart. She wanted to keep going, to show him just how grateful she was. But his eyes told her nothing; nothing of how he felt just then, nothing to tell her to keep going, nothing.

She backed away from him slowly, taking her hand off his arm and turning toward the couch, "Good night, ." She said to him, as if nothing had happened, and technically nothing had. He watched her as she laid down onto the couch and closed her eyes. "Good night, Ms. Adler." he whispered to himself, and he continued down the hall and into his bedroom. He shut the door and smiled to himself, knowing that _the woman_ was in his living room.

Well, what do you think? I hope you liked it, I'm not sure if I do, so please continue to review!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 is here! *heroic-entrance music playing* lol. I'm feeling pretty happy right now, hopefully it won't affect the mood of the story. Lol. I tend to do that sometimes. Please enjoy!

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"That's it, then?" John said, as if he had expected a better story than the one Sherlock had just told him. Of course, the more sentimental stuff had been left out, how could he tell John such trivial things. As if it mattered. Sherlock furrowed his brow in John's direction. "Yes, did you expect me to be more dramatic about it?" John lifted his brows. "Don't answer that. It's fine." Sherlock quickly responded. There was silence in the room for a few moments. Irene had walked around the flat the whole time Sherlock had been telling the story, not wishing to interfere, or correct, any detail in the tale. However, she knew he would have left stuff out, only the basic rescue story would be told to John, nothing else Sherlock would have been deemed worthy.

Now, she was in the bathroom, fixing her appearance to prepare herself for a day of sitting alone in 221B. As she realized she would not be going anywhere, she stopped putting mascara on her eyelashes. She stood a moment wondering exactly how long she would be in the flat, and then she had to admit that she didn't know. They would come looking for her eventually, knowing that she had associated herself with the Holmes boys at one point in time. She decided not to think about it, and applied the rest of her make-up, no matter how light it would be. Then she moved from the bathroom and into the hall. She was still wearing her clothes from yesterday, as she had nothing else to put on. She stood in the hall, pondering on the thought of clothing; she turned towards Sherlock's bedroom door, slightly agape, and gave a mischievous smirk to herself.

Sherlock and John continued to sit in the living room, John was watching as Sherlock held the paper and read silently. "John?" He said, not turning away. "hm?" was John's reply. "Why are you staring at me?"

"I'm not, its just, um. How long exactly, is she going to be staying here."

"No idea."

"Well, you may want to think about that. We tend to have company quite regularly if you remember."

"Yes, John, I have not forgotten."

"Well, then…."

This time Sherlock looked up from the newspaper and looked directly at John. "Irene's presence here is a minor detail in our duties and regular routine, and is only temporary until we can find a better solution to keep her safe."

"So now we're her watch guards, are we? There are, supposedly, hundreds of people looking for her, or at least, will be. There's no way we are going to be able to keep all of them at bay. And its dangerous, anyway."

"Danger, as I recall, had never stopped us before." Sherlock said with finality. John sighed as her knew that was true, but he didn't have to be happy about it. He decided he would just go with it, like he always did. He got up from his chair and headed towards the fridge and Sherlock turned back to the paper. A rather vulgar and exclamatory term came from the kitchen as Sherlock heard the fridge open and close quickly. "Don't touch it!" he replied to the noises. "It's a bowl of severed fingers, Sherlock! Of course, I'm not going to touch it! What the hell is it doing in our fridge!?" Sherlock looked at him again out of the corner of his eye. "Experiment. The fridge keeps it fresh." John turned around and rolled his eyes, sighing at the ridiculousness that was his flat mate. "Well, I'm headed to the store now, because as of now, the only thing in our fridge is human flesh." He said, mainly to himself, as he pulled on his coat. As he exited, so did Irene, from the depths of Sherlock's room.

She walked slowly down the hall, through the kitchen, and into the living room. "Was that John leaving just now?" Sherlock looked up to respond to her, but was left with his mouth slightly open and no words escaped. She wore a pair of gym shorts, that hardly covered half her thighs and an off-white sweater that was entirely too big for her. "I couldn't find anything else that would suit me." She said innocently. "Where did you find that?" He asked her skeptically. "They were in your room, Mr. Holmes. I'm surprised you own such short shorts, though." He cocked his head slightly at her. "That isn't my sweater." Now she looked confusedly at him. "It's John's." He finished. She raised her eyebrows at him and he continued looking at her, until his face softened. "What was John's Sweater doing in _your_ room?" She asked, extremely curious as to what had put it there. Sherlock knew what had put it there.

There had been a night not to long ago where a particular case had ended with blood. Everywhere. When they had tried to enter the flat, refused to let them track through the building in that condition, and so the two men had climbed up the fire escape located at Sherlock's bedroom window. Not wanting to risk dripping someone else's blood all over the flat, they had stripped down to just about everything right there in the bedroom. Apparently, however, John's coat had left everything underneath it blood-free. But Irene still continued to look at him with curiosity, as she waited for his explanation. He watched her sit down in John's chair, "It was a case." He told her simply, feeling no need to go into detail. "Oh, I see. Sure it was." He looked at her as if she had be careful with what she think. And she remained quiet. They both did, until she couldn't stand it any longer.

"Why did you save?" She asked.

"How many times are you going to ask me that?"

"Until I get the right answer."

He turned to her, and looked at her, his elbows where on the arms of the chair and he held his hands together, his fingers entwined. She waited for him, in John's chair, her legs brought up tightly next to her. It was now in the afternoon, about one o'clock, but neither of them was hungry. At least not for food. They looked at each other, as if they expected the other to say something. Irene hadn't really expected him to be frank with her, but she asked to see if maybe he would give her more clues. Instead she was now trying to read his face. His hair was still thick and curly like it had been last night, his cheekbones still intact, his eyes still very blue. Yet, there was something in his face, something in "vacant" expression. It wasn't as vacant as some might see it to be. If only she had known that Molly Hooper had seen it, too. It was sadness. Sherlock's face was sad. She didn't like it. She found herself wanting make it happy, making him happy. And for a moment she actually thought she might be able to. But then he said, "I saved you because I knew you were in trouble, and I knew that I had been the one to bring you there." She awoke from her contemplating daze blinked in his direction. "You saved me out of pity?" she said, not wanting to believe that answer. He leaned in towards the emptiness between the two chairs, his elbows now resting on his knees. He waited a moment before saying, "Your feelings toward me are clear to me. I don't like it." She was a little shocked at this, and she watched his face contort as he tried to read her, as if he were looking for something in her that he was missing or that he didn't understand. But, of course, he had already admitted that there wasn't. He knew. Of course, he knew, or else she wouldn't be here.

"You don't…. 'like' it?" she questioned, not sure what he had meant. His face loosened as he looked at her face, thinking about his response. "No." He leaned back, as if he had found what he had been looking for, as if that something wasn't what he had expected. And he didn't like it. She saw this in his face, as he turned away from her. The room grew lighter just then, as clouds parted and the sunlight poured through the windows. Irene turned her gaze from the very confusing man across from her, and looked toward the window. Sunlight wasn't common in London, and she enjoyed soaking it in as much as possible.

Sherlock watched her, out of the corner of his eye, as she walked over to the window. Even in the frumpiest of outfits, she still looked incredible. Her hair was still down, and the sun made her dark brunette color look deep red. A feeling grew in the deepest pit of his stomach, and he turned away from her. He hated himself at that moment, and he wanted to hate her as well. But now he knew that he couldn't. _Love is a defect found in the losing side…_…


	5. Chapter 5

John had gotten home a few hours ago with enough groceries for the three of them to have dinner. However, John had met someone at the grocery store, a woman, and so would be out again later that night. Irene sat in John's chair once more, she couldn't help but be disgusted with the amount she had been sitting the past 24 hours or so. Sherlock had then gone out, a call from Lestrade taking him to goodness knows where. She sat alone, the faint sound of the shower in the background, as John prepared for his date.

She recalled the talking of earlier that day. Sherlock hadn't liked knowing her feelings. What could that even mean? He had seemed puzzled, but also not, making him that much more confusing. Almost like he wanted to be puzzled, as if solving it would mean the end; like finishing a good book. She sighed, in spite of herself. She hadn't really thought in depth about her feelings for Sherlock, she hadn't felt the need to. However, being in his flat for an undefined amount of time may have a way of changing things. Did she want to change things. She knew he wasn't one for outright feelings, and she honestly couldn't blame him. Feelings could be useless, let alone obnoxious, as she was beginning to figure out. Yet, she couldn't help the feelings, they were there. Maybe it was best just to let them be there, to let them stay, and just ignore them. That would be easiest, and then she could just tease him, and continue playing their game like they had been. It was just easier that way.

John emerged from the bathroom, along with a forest of steam. "My, my," she said, turning around. "We definitely made sure we were squeaky clean, didn't we?" She grinned at him, and he looked at her indifferently. She laughed to herself as e went to his bedroom. Then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, too quick and shuffling to be Sherlock's…

walked into the room with a fold of laundry in her arms, "How many times must I tell you boys, I'm not your house-…." She stopped short when she saw Irene in John's chair, an she was slightly more surprised to see her in his sweater. "Uhm, excuse me." She said, slightly alarmed. She had almost decided to turn to leave, when she turned to Irene, "Are you John's date?" Irene couldn't help but smile at the woman's sweet bluntness. "No ma'am. I'm not." appeared to think a moment. And then she stiffened her back with surprise, "You're not here for Sherlock are you?" She asked skeptically. "I guess that's one way of putting it." Irene smiled again, seeing the reaction on 's face. "Well, then dear," she said, regaining her composure and walking over to Irene, "you shouldn't be wearing those clothes. He wouldn't like it much." Irene smiled again, as she saw the mischief in the old landlady's face.

Sherlock walked up the stairs to the flat, it was 8pm. John had left a half hour ago and Irene should have been upstairs. He entered the flat and took of his coat, laying it across the sofa and looking arounf the living room. "Irene?" he called. No answer. He walked into the kitchen and hallway, knowcking on the bathroom door, searching for her. He began to worry that she had left, it would have been foolish, especially for a clever woman like herself. "Irene?" he called again sounding slightly more frantic. He quickly walked back to the living room, loosening his suit coat.

"What are you getting so worked up about?" she said slyly, standing in the doorway. Her hair was pinned up as usual and her make-up done. She wore a floor length dress of worn satin, the color of thick blood. Sherlock turned toward her and was left speechless for the second time today. "You weren't where I left you." He stated. The feeing was growing again, his face felt warm, but his body felt chilled. She walked into the room, "what do you think?" she asked. He didn't answer her, so she continued. " decided my attire was not fit for you presence." she said slightly sarcastically and she smirked at him. He still didn't answer as she walked around him and into the kitchen. "Let's have dinner." She suggested knowingly. "I'm not hungry." He replied. "Good, me neither." She replied deeply, repeating the conversation they had had many nights before. The night he found out.

"I'm not hungry," he said again. "For food." He finished this line very solemnly, and her face fell slightly as his seriousness pierced through her. What was he saying? What was he doing? He was moving toward her, slowly. He stopped midway and stared at her. She raised her eyebrows at him, now entranced by his words and movements. "I have always believed that feelings were a disadvantage." He said. "And I still believe that. It's weakness. Your feelings are a weakness in you." He started advancing toward her again, and she soaked it in. Every word. Every move. "I have found myself sharing in you weakness, and it sickens me." He was right in front of her know, hands behind his back. Her face softened as she realized what he had admitted to her. He blinked, almost awkwardly, and his lips moved as if to say something, but he had changed his mind. " …" His head was bent slightly over hers. She felt herself being relieved of feelings inside herself. Ignoring them didn't have to be an option. She stared into his blue eyes, knowing exactly how he felt as he stared back at her. He felt the exact same way she did.

She slowly brought a hand to his face and he followed the movement with his head, slowly closing the distance between their faces. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to meet hers. When they did, the feelings inside both bodies grew stronger. Passion overflowed from the mouths of the two beings, and nothing made sense anymore; nothing mattered.

For the first time in Sherlock's life, he wasn't thinking. He was feeling, and it was the strangest thing for him to have ever done. And the worst part was he didn't care; and yet, it was also the best part. He moved his hands to around her back and pulled her in more. Both her hands were at his neck, her fingers clutching the ends of his hair, slightly tugging. They pulled each other in closer and closer, till they knew closer could only go one more level. At that they both stopped. He had propped her up on the kitchen table, a leg was slightly wrapped around his waist. A few buttons had come undone on shirt and Irene was no longer wearing shoes. They stared at each other, breathing heavily. Sherlock wanted to car so badly, to think about what he was doing; but he didn't at the same time. He was confusing himself and it was almost unbearable. Irene was wondering if this were okay; if this would ultimately hurt him. She watched as a sudden clarity came t his eyes, she also watched as it quickly became animal. She had never seen such a side to him, and they both had never known it existed.

He picked her up off the table in one sweeping motion and carried her to the deepest part of the flat. She was done thinking for the night, and she began to kiss his neck while he carried her. Shutting the door behind him, he brought them both onto bedsprings. Now it was his turn to be done thinking.

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**Wow guys. That got intense. Not gonna lie, I was scaring myself for a bit there. Lol. I hope you guys like this chapter. I'm thinking there will only be one or two after this, just to warn you. Thanks for reading! **


	6. Chapter 6

**HELLO! so, thanks to a very recent reviewer, I have noticed some things wrong about my story. The Karachi for example, is not an organization, but a place in Pakistan. Therefore, I am here to warn you that some details may end up changing in previous chapters. However, I will try very hard to keep the storyline the same. Thank you! :)**

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Slowly, Irene came to also, and she opened her eyes to feel the skin of the man under her. She smiled to herself and wrapped her hands around his body, hugging him. She looked up to see his face and saw that he was watching her. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes." she said quite cheerily. He made no comment on the morning, or to how good it was, he just kept staring at her. She watched him, as if his mind were trying to reset itself to the way it was, to before their connection. She waited for him to say something or to find his reaction. Finally, he scowled at her.

"I don't like it." Irene knew his frame of reference, but decided to tease a little. "Was I really all that bad, Sherlock?" she pouted a little for affect. He rolled his eyes. "This feeling is unnecessary and unsanctioned. Its purpose in my life amounts to the size of a speck of dust. And yet this weakness is enjoyable. And that is why I hate it." She raised a lazy eyebrow at him. Thinking about her words for a moment, she spoke to him, "What does it mean, Sherlock?" He frowned at her, urging her to explain. "You made love to me, Sherlock. And you initiated it. Now tell me what it means." She was trying to get his brain working, for he was obviously having trouble. She knew that no amount of reason would bring him to the right conclusion, only his own brain power. And so now she watched him think, and couldn't help notice how incredibly sexy it was.

His brain was moving fast: _Love :a result of a release of chemicals and hormones in the body, giving one the feeling of emotions pertaining to physical contact, relationship, and connection through thoughts. Making love: the act of sexual intercourse. _He thought about the way she made him feel every time they were around each other: stomach light and rapid pulse, he appreciated her touch, liked her closeness. Every time. He was in love with her. Fairly obvious.

The real question, "why"? _Irene Adler: Dark hair, fair skin, hazel eyes, dramatic lips, enchanting curves. Works as a "dominatrix"_ , _is impressively clever, mischievous, rebellious, relies on the protection of something constantly tangible, finds others being clever as "sexy". _He looked towards her again, and saw her watching him still, she was smirking at him. Why did he love her?

Everything about her was a puzzle, something for his brain to work on, for his mind to understand. He was never bored around her, he was always on his metaphorical toes. She wasn't obvious about her sentiments, she misbehaved, did what she wanted, worked her way to get the things she wanted, and she was always tactful and kept her dignity. She was like him, in an uncanny way. And yet, they were so different.

Suddenly, he gave out a sigh of contentment, which caught Irene a tad off guard. "Well?" she asked, raising her head off his chest slightly. He put his hands up behind his head, in a relaxing position, and looked up at the ceiling, as if he had found the answer. And maybe he had, but he said nothing about it. "How does breakfast sound?" he asked.

John had come home that night, feeling only slightly depressed. His date hadn't gone well, and she had left him outside of the restaurant after their meal without so much as a "call me". It was his fault really, his constant checking of his phone made her believe he was in a panic about a spouse, and therefore, she hadn't trusted him. He may as well have been married, having to keep up with Sherlock like this all the time. However, he hadn't cared too much about the loss; his concern (obviously) was why he hadn't heard from Sherlock at all last night. Coming out of his bedroom, he went to the living room, searching for his two flat mates. They were not to be found, and he looked around the room, confused and worried. "Sherlock?" he called. He started to head for Sherlock's closed door, when Sherlock stepped out quickly, shutting the door behind him. "Yes, John?" John looked suspiciously at him and then at the door. "Where's Irene?" he asked.

"She went for tea."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"Maybe."

John continued looking at him skeptically. Sherlock walked by him, buttoning up his suit coat. John watched him, looked back at the door, and then followed him into the living room. "Where are you going?" John inquired again, as he saw him putting on his coat and scarf. "Out." He replied. "Be back soon." John knew that he often did this, but on this particular morning, it had been even more suspicious than usual. "Uh, Sherlock?" John called after him, and stopped him from walking out of the door. Sherlock turned. "Why didn't you answer my texts, yesterday? I thought you had been out on a case, I would have thought- well, I- I would have thought you would have needed me." John said this almost pitifully, but whatever sadness he had was mostly masked by suspicion. Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then replied, "You were out on a date. And it was an easy case, besides. I thought you would have appreciated my keeping to myself and not bothering you?" He said this with slight urgency, but he also managed to sound surprised at John's reaction to his silence last night. Which he wasn't. John nodded his head, as if he were surprised at himself as well. "You would think that." He said. "Fine. Go out and do, whatever it is that you do." He gave a wave of his hand, and Sherlock walked out off 221B. John continued standing in the living room, thinking. He looked at the bedroom door again, and then at the front door, as if checking to make sure Sherlock wouldn't burst in again. He then walked, quite quickly, over to Sherlock's room. He hesitated a moment at the door knob, but then burst in.

He looked around, as if expecting something new to appear or jump out at him, but nothing did. His suspicions were all for not. It was as if Sherlock were playing a trick on him, but only heaven knows why he would do that. He shut the door again, but kept his hand on the knob. He thought for a minute, frowned, and burst in a second time. Still nothing new. He again turned away, shaking it out of his head. Nothing had been extremely unusual about the room and so he gave up the prospect and it left his head for the rest of the morning. But good gracious, had it been a complete mess in there!


	7. Chapter 7

They sat across from each other in the small, quaint restaurant, watching one another. They studied each other's faces, neither saying a word. They had been at it now for almost twenty minutes. The poor waiter had come three times and each time left in an awkward silence, still not knowing their orders. Sherlock's brow was furrowed and Irene's eyes seductively squinted.

He shifted in his seat, as if to look at her from a different angle, "figured it out yet?" she asked. He cocked his head slightly, his expression unchanging. Sherlock didn't answer her and continued looking at her. She had borrowed more of 's clothes, funny how she owned such appropriate clothing for a younger woman. She had applied more make-up for their outing, which he could only assume she also borrowed, which h found amusing.

"Fried eggs on rye toast." He said with finality, looking away from her and straightening himself in his chair. She nodded her head slightly as if impressed, "very good. It took you 23 minutes to guess what I wanted for breakfast." She smiled playfully at him and he looked at her indifferently, but definitely _feeling_ differently. They continued looking at each other again until Sherlock said, "Your turn."

Irene smiled at him knowingly, and set her chin upon her hands, elbows on the table, and leaned closer to him, "A cup of earl grey." He looked away from her, as if unimpressed, but it was really all he wanted that morning; food wise anyway. She gave a slight chuckle, knowing she had been right. "I've known since we walked in. You could smell it coming in, and I could see your eyes cling to it with desire." She hadn't moved from her flirtatious position. He began to ask her how she could know he had desired it, when he remembered she had seen desire in his eyes before.

And that was when he first felt the repercussions of his weakness. Somebody could read him. He had let his guard down, he had let himself feel, and know she could read him more easily than anyone; except for maybe John. Once again, he didn't like it, and he knew it would happen, but to its extent of displeasure he had not realized. And, of course, she saw the pain in his face, ever so slightly. She made a mental not of this, and backed away from the table, as if to give him space to breath.

She had enjoyed their time together, however brief, very much, and last night had been absolutely divine. But she began to wonder now, when she might be needing to leave. The waiter came to their table, once again, and was very relieved to see them acting "normal". After giving their orders, Sherlock looked to Irene, and saw the questions behind her eyes. He turned towards the window, "How soon do you wish to leave?"

She looked up at him, not in complete shock, but in surprise at the outburst. "It isn't a matter of when, you know that. It's a matter of readiness." She said feeling completely helpless, for only a brief moment. She hated the feeling of being totally dependent on another human being, a trait that was unwillingly disappearing; and rather quickly. He looked at her, "You can't stay in London."

"Obviously." He gave a slight smile to her use of the word, for he knew he said it often. He couldn't help but mentally punch himself for feeling this sentiment. "If you want me to help you, and believe me you do, then you are going to have to tell me everything." He had become more serious in this moment, coming closer to her face, and giving Irene a slight chill. She, of course, did not like the sound of that. Firstly, she knew that it would take hours. Secondly, she knew that she would be giving herself away. Not like she already hadn't, but how much more was she actually willing to give. She was still "the woman" after all, was she not? Had she given that away? What was it that she actually wanted? Stability or freedom? Adventure or cowardice? Life… or love? She looked at Sherlock, all the emotions and questions playing on her face, and he could see it. Every worry, every fear she had, he was looking at.

Then he realized that he hadn't been the only one to give into weakness. It wasn't just her that could see him more clearly, but it was he who could see her as well. In this realization, he found a sense of relief. He may have given himself away, but it hadn't been to the world, it had been to one woman. _The woman_.

He watched her continue contemplating these things and see her turn to look out the window. He watched her, knowing not what else to say; he had never been good at social graces. Then, their food came, and they both were surprised, forgetting why they had come to begin with. They saw each other's surprise and laughed slightly. The waitress looked at them fondly, "I love to see the newly-wed ones come in! Makes me so happy to know such fresh love exists." She winked at them and walked away.

They looked at each other and gave a slightly embarrassed laugh, the embarrassment mostly coming from Sherlock. "I sleep with you one night, and suddenly I've become ." she said amusingly. At this he laughed and she smiled, and the waitress from afar continued enjoying the sight.

**I know it isn't much, I just felt that there had to be chapter for them think about their feelings and begin talk about how to keep Irene safe. Please review! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello dear friends, welcome to chapter 8. Lol. I have been thinking lately, about starting other stories, as I have a few on my brain (mostly one-shots). Most of them concern BBC Sherlock however, and so I would like some opinions on some other topics I might write for. I don't care if you don't think I'm "into" it, please give me any ideas you have. I don't want to have only Sherlock all the time ;P Thanks! **

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Normally, Sherlock Holmes would have been extremely bored at this time of night, but with Irene Adler in the same room, it was hard for him to keep up that routine. It was around 11:00, and they were fully awake and talkative. Funny thing for Sherlock to be talkative; however, he _had_ tasted a little alcohol in the tea Irene made earlier. Though he wasn't drunk, he could feel the tingle of its poison in the back of his brain.

It had started off as hr discussing all the trouble she had been in. Her run ins with the law at a young age, her work as a source with MI6, her trouble in illegal gangs in England, Germany, and Wales, and her most recent work as a dominatrix; ya know, the usual stuff. After awhile though, Irene couldn't handle all of the story telling, her mind becoming too full of unwanted memories from her broken past. So she had made tea; vodka tea. Just a smidge, nothing they couldn't handle. Of course she hadn't told Sherlock, where was the fun in that?

So here they sat, in the living room, by the fire, talking about simpler things. John had returned after the deeper discussion, and was now sitting at his laptop, typing up an unfinished blog on a week old case. He noted Sherlock's lack of interest in cases since Irene's presence in the flat, and turned to look at them.

Sherlock was giggling (actual giggling) at something Irene had said, and she was smiling at him. He watched them converse more, not really listening to their words, but to the way they spoke to one another. He noticed the way they looked upon the other, and he could tell something had happened. He wasn't exactly sure what, but he had a pretty good idea, and it quite shocked him. He made a laughing noise, without meaning to, and they both looked at him through glassy eyes. "Oh, uh, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt, I just…"

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock inquired, moving his head back slightly as if to get a better look at him. Okay, he was a little drunk.

"Like what?"

"Like that!" he said, pointing to the raised eyebrow expression John was giving him. "Whatever, it doesn't matter. I don't care."

Irene started laughing at him again, for she was just as drunk. "What?" he said to her through laughter. "I didn't say anything." She replied, feigning innocence.

"Everyone needs to stop being funny, because I don't get it. "

"Well, that's a first." John muttered.

"I heard that."

Irene continued giggling and Sherlock kept telling her to stop, in a slightly playful way, which continued to amuse John. Sherlock pointed close to her face and she watched him and laughed. "If you don't stop that right now," he said. "I'll make you." He said this as somberly as a drunk could. "I'd like to see you try." She said daringly and doubtful. And to John's utter shock, Sherlock leaned in quickly towards her face and kissed her. She stopped laughing instantly and let him kiss her. John stared, wondering what he should do, or say. "Mhm." Irene murmured, and pushed him away slightly, her hands holding him at bay. "John's in the room, ."

"Who?" he asked. Irene laughed again. "Your doctor?" she added.

"I don't have a doctor. I have a hat! And a skull," he pointed to the skull, and then turned back to Irene. "and a woman." He finished this very seriously, making John think he had snapped out of his drunken state. She looked at him very seriously, "for now", was her reply. She moved her hands, and he sank into her again.

The whole thing, John had seen, and as they didn't look like they were going to stop, he took that as his cue to leave. It really was the strangest thing; he had never seen Sherlock in such a state before. Not drunk, and certainly not, in what he could only assume, was love. He walked out, away from the scene, and headed toward his bedroom. He couldn't help but look back, however, and he saw Sherlock practically on top of her. He turned once again, slightly frightened, and went to bed.

Sherlock and Irene continued their drunken scene, until Irene said, "I can't believe the floor will be very comfortable." Sherlock looked at her a moment, nodded, got up, and walked away. She was slightly surprised and she turned in her chair to see him walk to his room and vanish. She sat there watching the doorway, not sure whether or not to expect his return. Then, she saw clothes, flying across his room. Her eyes got wide, and she laughed, and then he reappeared, in nothing but a robe. The blue one, and he stood in his doorway, waiting. She smiled deviously at him and walked down the hall towards him.

When she reached him, he took her lips into his once again, and they fell into the bedroom for the second time.

* * *

Irene awoke to Sherlock's heavy breathing and her head pounding ever so slightly. She gave a small groan and Sherlock stirred and moaned, as if replying. She said not a word, wishing the second time they'd been together didn't have to ache so much. She could see the top of his head, his curls on the pillow, while the rest was hidden under the comforter.

Suddenly, a loud banging was at the door, and they both jumped up in alarm, and then instantly regretted it. The sudden movement and loud noises reverberating through their brains and shaking their bones. John called through the closed door that it was already noon. Sherlock groaned again and started to get up. His fingers were pressed to his forehead, in deep concentration, and he practically stumbled out of bed and to his closet. He stood there a moment, and seemingly changed his mind, turned around and picked up the robe from last night, and headed out of the room. Not so much of a good morning was made to Irene, but she couldn't blame him. He headed for the shower, and John watched him from the living room, chuckling and drinking his coffee.

Irene continued to lay there, decidedly waiting for the shower. Last night was kind of fuzzy to her, she knew it had been fun, of course, but she hadn't really planned on getting drunk. She'd definitely had worst hangovers though, and she decided not to worry about it to much. Sherlock on the other hand, she had no idea. Had he ever been drunk? She thought about it a moment, and decided he probably had. She looked about his room, something she hadn't done before, and noticed the tidiness of it, and compared it to the living room. She thought it humorous, but she dared not laugh out loud.

Her mind then wandered to their more serious discussion about her past. The stuff he had needed to know, in order to help her. He knew who was after her now, all of them. She knew that with Sherlock's help, she could be kept safe, even if she wasn't with him the whole time. She knew he would come up with a plan. Where did she want to go? She wasn't really sure, but she was knew it couldn't be England; or the U.K for that matter. She had to play dead, like she had the last time. A new alias was to be had, new credentials, everything. It might take some time, she knew, but what was the rush?

She smiled slightly to herself, thinking of the fun things she could continue doing in 221B. The things she could do, and things she was currently doing. She wondered how Sherlock actually felt about her. She figured she should have known by now his feelings, and of course he hadn't outright told her; and he probably wouldn't. So she was left there, laying beneath his sheets pondering this notion, unaware of a watchful car in the street below.

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**Dun dun duuhh! *ominous noise, type, thing* So, some action stuff had to begin eventually right? Nothing to heart pounding, sorry, not good at that. But all good stories, as they say, must come to an end. And I am every that this one is nigh. Not sure how soon, but soon. I hope you guys have enjoyed it! I certainly think it's been grand. Don't forget to review! ;) Danka! **


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock's bow eased across the strings of his violin as autumn leaves might float down a stream. The melody warmed the room and made it more lax, making it contradict what was going on in the musician's head. He was thinking, of course. Since they had awoken at noon, it was late in the day by now, and sleep was far from his brain. Irene Adler was on his brain, and it was tempting to simply think of her body, but he was trying to focus.

She had told him quite a lot the night before, but of course, he had retained it all. His acts as a drunk, however, were slightly blurry. He did remember initiating contact, and for that he was slightly ashamed; it had subsided though, when he remembered just how good the contact had been. It was something new to him; something he never would have pursued: intimate contact. But with The Woman, it was different. It wasn't just about her touch, or him touching her, it went deeper; as things usually did. Their levels of intellect connected as well as their physical selves. It was almost like a game, reading each other's thoughts and predicting each other's moves, but it came so naturally, it was like cheating. It was amazing how two people could know one another so well, without actually _knowing_ one another.

No more. He couldn't continue thinking about it, there were more important tasks at hand. For one, the car across the street had left and returned three times within the last five hours. This one reason he continued playing the violin, to look out the window. That way The Woman wouldn't think to suspiciously, as she was right there in the living room, on his laptop. Normally, people didn't touch his things, but for now, he had made an exception. She was looking for places she might like to go to.

She searched the web, thinking about whether Paris was better in the spring or fall and whether or not New York would suit her. She really had no idea; if she had her choice, she would continue living in Belgravia, but that was now impossible for her. Besides, she needed a new name as well, and that would be even harder. She had done it before, in fact, Irene Adler wasn't even her real name, but it was one she was becoming more and more fond of.

She looked up from the laptop when she heard Sherlock suddenly stop playing mid-note. He held his bow and violin in place at his chin and kept his face towards the window, but he stood stock still. "Sherlock?" Irene started to ask. He didn't say a thing, and before she could inquire of him again, he swiftly headed towards his coat and scarf. He walked quickly out the door, calling behind him, "wait here!".

As soon as Sherlock stepped out of 221B, the suspicious car began to nonchalantly drive away; but as soon as Sherlock made a move to follow it, it sped up, and the chase was on. Whoever was driving, Sherlock observed, knew the streets of London well. Luckily, so did he. He chased it for several blocks, taking alleyways and side streets, dodging unaware pedestrians, and jumping over construction hazards. His coat blew open against his speed and his curls were swept off his forehead.

The car drove down a well hidden alley way, and to Sherlock's surprise, it stopped there. Sherlock stopped running, his breathing only slightly irregular and stood a few feet away from the back of the car. A man stepped out of the driver's seat and immediately held a gun up in the consulting detective's direction. Sherlock's hands went up and his eyes rolled. He didn't recognize the man personally, but he did recognize him as a palace official; no wonder he knew the streets well.

Sherlock knew immediately that this man was under the orders of his oh-so-nosey brother, Mycroft. "Don't move." The man said to him methodically. "I wouldn't dare." Replied Sherlock sarcastically. "I mean it." Said the other.

"I'm not going back with you." Sherlock told him, putting his arms down. This made the man grip his weapon tighter, "Now look, Mr. Holmes, I don't want to have to use force…"

"And I don't want to have to be stubborn…"

The other man didn't reply, and seeing no imminent threat, he lowered his weapon. The man sighed, remembering the warning the eldest Holmes had given him about his mule-ish brother. The man walked over to Sherlock, " , please. Mycroft is only worried, I'm sure. The trip shouldn't take more than a half hour or so. I don't like using force, sir, but I will."

Sherlock stared at him, noting his use of the word "sir" in reference to himself, and found the respect interesting. He scanned the man's face: recently shaven, had plenty of sleep, eyes refocusing after hours of looking at a computer; this man didn't know details, he only knew orders. For this, Sherlock let him lead him to the backseat of the car and help him get in. He knew Mycroft was suspicious of him, but that didn't mean he would get answers. For Sherlock, this was a bump in the road, and another tedious rendezvous with his cocky brother.

**Sorry for the shortness, I just know that it's been awhile since I've updated and I wanted to get something out there. Thanks for the patience. **


	10. Chapter 10

**So sorry for such the long wait! I don't even know how long its actually been. I know this isn't the best and most exciting chapter. But its what ived got for you for know. Thanks so much for being patient with me! :)**

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Sherlock sat surprisingly patiently in the soft arm chair of Mycroft's office. He was patient for now, but if Mycroft didn't come soon, Sherlock might use the adjacent window for escape. Just as Sherlock was calculating the length of the drop, his brother walked in. "Glad you could make it, Sherlock." Mycroft briefly smiled in the other man's direction. "I wasn't given much of a choice." He replied.

"Sure you were. It was either my office the easy way, or the hard way."

"Exaclty."

Mycroft gave a smirk and shrugged the last comment off, "so how are you, brother, dear?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock said sternly, cutting to the chase.

"What? A man can't check up…"

"Mycroft."

Mycroft noted the serious and slightly rushed tone to his voice, and his innocent face was replaced by a very business-like countenance. They stared at each other for a moment, before Mycroft pulled out a file from a drawer in his desk; never taking his eyes off Sherlock. He dropped it on the desk and Sherlock looked to it. It was a simple manila folder, not very thick, and was just recently added to Mycroft's collection; Sherlock judged this by the lack of dust and wear, as anyone would.

Sherlock looked to Mycroft and for him to continue. "We've received news, Sherlock." Sherlock really didn't know where his brother was going with this, but did he detect a hint of concern in his voice? "And what, pray, is this news that is so important, you had to "force" me over here."

"Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock almost yelled as he was getting tired of Mycroft wasting time.

"Irene Adler is dead."

Sherlock sat silently for a moment. Mycroft actually thought that the woman was dead? He couldn't help but mentally commend himself on how clever he was, that his own brother didn't know she was alive. Or did he? Sherlock stared at Mycroft a bit more. "So?" was his reply. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, "that's it?"

"What else is there? Do you assume that I care for this information."

"Yes, actually, I…"

"Well, I don't." He added quickly, maybe a little too quickly. His brother caught it, and stared at Sherlock more skeptically. They sat there in silence some more before Sherlock started again, "Do you have the body?" he asked.

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked a little sheepish, "No, not yet. We have people searching in Karachi, where she was reported through a source of ours that she was dead." Sherlock nodded, as if he were thinking about what it meant. Mycroft watched his brother, he didn't expect him to have a dramatic reaction, but he was looking at least, for some emotion. He didn't see any to his confused surprise, and so he stood up. "Tell me, Sherlock." Sherlock looked to Mycroft innocently. "Did you hear from her at all, after all of _that_." Assuming Sherlock knew what he meant by _that_, he continued. "If so, I would like to know what it was, because we very much need to find this body." Sherlock didn't respond at first looking at Mycroft and deciding how to answer. "No. I haven't."

"I see." Mycroft quickly responded. He was skeptical now, and he watched his brother turn his head toward the window. "Was that all you needed me for?" Mycroft gave and exasperated laugh, "Yes, I suppose so."

"Well then, I guess I'll be off." Sherlock stood and looked at his brother, then left the room with a swish of his coat. Mycroft sighed and turned to his mahogany hutch in search of a drink. He knew that Sherlock knew more than he let on, he always did, but he wasn't sure what. He'd have people on it right away, of course, so the mystery wouldn't remain for long. He sat back down in his chair with a glass of butterscotch brandy. He opened up the folder on his desk and scanned over its information: a picture of the woman, a file on her past clients, a file on her history(which wasn't a lot), and a picture of his own brother. He lifted up the photo of Sherlock, not remembering it being there when he created the folder. He set it down again and glanced about the room, a realization of what might have been done dawning upon his mind.


End file.
